50 J. COLE,

from traps, snares, etc.,—all these creatures
were Joe’s delight. Each week the gardener’s
boy wrote a few words to Joe of their health
and wonderful doings, and each week Joe faith-
fully sent a shilling, to be laid out in food for
them. Then there was Joe’s especial garden,
also a sort of hospital, or convalescent home
rather, where many blighted, unhealthy-looking
plants and shrubs, discarded by the gardener,
and cast aside to be burnt on the weed-heap,
had been rescued by Joe, patiently nursed
and petted as it were into life again by con-
stant care and watching, and, after being kept
in pots a while, till they showed, by sending
forth some tiny shoot or bud, that the sap of
life was once more circulating freely, were then
planted in the sheltered corner he called “his
own.”

What treasures awaited him in this small
square of earth. What bunches of violets he
would gather for the Missis; and his longing
to get back to his various pets, and his garden,
was the topic of conversation on many a long
evening between Joe and Mrs. Wilson.

Little Bogie, the fox-terrier, was the only